Precious

  Precious

As a child    you would

like to have been seen as precious.

That there was a moment when

all those eyes gathered outside the

maternity ward window came to

gaze down upon you

in your cozy bassinet,

and then…   those words.

Each individual struggling to be

the first to utter them.

“Ah, isn’t he precious?”

And of course everyone

nods    in agreement.

And that moment…

That   precise moment…

That was very well the last time

you were ever truly precious.

Shortly after this you

came to crap your pants

for the very first time, and

there began your fall from grace.

Oh, I suppose in a way

you were still precious.

Simply lesser so with each full diaper,

or     equivalent fecal mistake

on your    decadent way to death.

I suppose there is

that moment before death

when it’s possible to be seen

as precious yet again.

Yes, when infantile transitions to senile.

Bookends to that span of life

in between where your every action

is rendered stark via   brutal critique.

My mother told me to be careful.

That the lamp was indeed precious.

That it could not   be replaced.

Something compared to which I

   was   not held in the

   same   high   esteem.

I figured the message here

was that I could be replaced.

Indeed with only the slightest physical effort

upon my father’s part, and

another one of me

could easily be at hand.

The oil lamp in question

had belonged to my mother’s grandmother,

and after so many coveted generations,

had finally passed into her hands.

There was Grandma Mary,

and there was Grandma Mary’s lamp.

In many ways,  one and the same.

Precious.

The lamp sat atop an upright piano.

A substantial bit of furniture.

Something you would think a small boy

could not shift in weight.

Something that one small boy

did   in fact    manage to do.

And there came that afternoon

when that lamp managed to

topple from its place

and cascade to the floor below

with a horrible sickening crash.

And somehow  my mother knew.

Within seconds, she passed from kitchen

to slowly emerge into the living room.

And there she came to stand,

looking down upon me

and her precious lamp

which now lay in shards

there    at my feet.

And me?     

I am awaiting that

explosion of fury

I so rightly   deserve,

and yet     nothing.

Absolutely  nothing.

There   upon her stoic face,

a most eerie    calm.

And then,   after the pass

of what appeared   eternity,

words come to emit   from her mouth.

Without looking up from the lamp,

she dryly states,

“Get out   of the house.”

Not an exclamation of anger, but

a simple sedate phrase:

“Get out of the house.”

And there, quickly making my exit,

I crossed the lawn to pass

deep into the adjacent woods

where I hid   for a full  two hours.

I was most certainly not precious

   and   knew it.

Years later my mother conveyed

how she fell to her knees and sobbed.

And why had she uttered those words,

“Get out of the house”?

It was because she wanted to   save me.

That at that moment, her utmost desire

was to strike me   with her fist.

Not something one does with that

which is supposedly precious.

A few years before this,

the woman who had given her that lamp

had fallen down a flight of stairs.

Someone we knew of as “Mary”.

The Mary who stood at the top of

   those ill-fated stairs,

and not she who ended up

there at the bottom like a

shattered and ruined lamp.

Well, not so much in body,

but rather in   being.

There within that mind,

this was   tied to that.

String to strand.

A matrix of woven psyche that

had here been ripped   asunder.

A multitude of broken strings

now wadded and wound into a

large   misshapen   sphere.

This synaptic string and that,

once having served specific needs,

but now all   bound together—

compressed into a ball which

held no other purpose than

to roll across the floor and

careen between the legs

 of each and every 

 mislaid chair.

As a child it is understood

that our minds have yet to mature. 

That we’ve yet to be strung as it were.

That we are often incapable

of knowing what is best. That

we are apt to make mistakes

of which time may or

may not permit a certain forgiveness.

With senility there comes

this understanding

that the fabric of our being

has become thread-worn

   and tattered.

And though for this we are often

forgiven by others,

it is something we sadly

will not forgive ourselves.

The last time I saw Mary

was at a family gathering.

Afflicted beneath the sledge of 

multiple strokes, she was

wheeled into an adjacent room

and left to sit by herself.

An enforced solitude

for the fact that

the other adults

remembered her

for who she once was

and herewith could not bear

to see what she’d   become.

As a child I knew no better.

Did not know that my

Great Grandma Mary

had become one who

was now incapable

of the simplest act of conversation.

For me…

For me she was still there.

I mean…   

She was     wasn’t she?

And there as I knelt down before her,

her random gaze

came to reflect   that of mine.

Tears welled forth

from her long lost eyes,

as she came to acknowledge

   one small boys presence.

And there from her lips a

simple phrase came to repeat

   over and over.

“Let’s go.

   Let’s go.

      Let’s go.”

Again and again.

A mantra of brutal anguish.

And I wish I could have taken her

out through the door,

   across the lawn and

       there into

           the distant woods.

Out to a place where

she and I could hide together.

For you see

out in the woods,

you can often

    find

self-   

    forgiveness.

©2010 Jack Hubbell

Big Top

  Big Top

You might find this a bit presumptuous

but within moments of our first meeting,

I knew we’d become    estranged.

Oh, it’s not that I didn’t like you.

No, there was not a single pre-existing bias

for what were we if not the

most complete of strangers?

Between strange

and estrange,

we were one and insane if

   only for a moment.

Yes, I’d like to say I liked you

but unlike you, I unfurled a

fence of indifference.

Abandoning our uncommon ground,

I left it for you to raise the circus tent

which made up your mind.

Lions and tigers and bears… oh my!

Presently, another arrives

upon our shared street corner

to set up his own circus tent.

And his lions are more ferocious;

his tigers more terrifying;

his bears     more unbearable.

Yo, and his circus comes complete with carnival.

And he’s smokin’ a cigarette, which is

almost as good as being a fire-eater.

Almost…

Lucky Strikes in a rolled up sleeve.

“Step up. Step up.

You look pretty tough.

Let’s see if you can ring that bell.

Close   but no cigar.”

No cigar.     That’s you.

Oh   so   you.

“Um… Excuse me bud

but could I um…

   bum a cigarette?”

Dude is smokin’ and you ain’t

and somehow you figure you have just

got to get a little of what makes him

   “the Big Top”.

So he throws you a fag

and it would be a pretty good trick

if you caught it mid-air

but you don’t ‘cause   your circus is

   sawdust      and peanuts.

He knows it, and I know it.

And here with a crack of the whip,

some lion roars from your center ring

while we in the bleachers yawn in mass

as yet another painted clown

spills forth from a miniature car.

Here on this particular curb

there’s many a big top that

will roll up with it’s own unique

   barking ring-master.

Each one his own Ringling Brothers.

Each one his own Barnum and Bailey.

Each man insisting that his tent pole

is that much thicker, and taller,

and more rigid than the others.

Each one thinking his stay power

will outlast that of all his contenders.

Each one singing the praise

of those special acts that

grace his center ring being.

You would think it would be hard

to set up tent on this urban concrete curb,

yet you’d be amazed at the ease

   at which so many do.

This scrolling concrete beneath our feet…

This concrete that we share…

The same concrete

that stretches away

down to the men’s shelter,

some three or four blocks distant.

That place where Saint Francis of Assisi

pitches his tent and religion.

And again, this is a bit

presumptuous of me

but I get the feeling

you know that place

all   too  well.

There now,

giving your best impression as to

how a true Big Top smokes a cigarette,

I notice that there’s a prominent

indentation in your skull which

begins at your right temple

and wraps around to forehead.

This, the spot where the

lions crawled into your head,

or the portal from which they roar to escape.

And here with a flick of ash to the ground,

the beasts step to your brow

and bring words to your nicotine lips.

“I can kick six feet high.

They don’t know that.

They think I’m a pussy but

    I’m not    a pussy.

I can lift one thousand pounds, I can.

I could punch you in your heart.

Punch you in your heart…

   You’re dead.”

Ahem…

“Hey Rube!

Looks like we’ve got a violent one here.”

Yes well…

I suppose you’re only trying to warn me.

Imminent threat duly noted.

Relationship   estranged.

Ticket sales plummet, and you

wonder why your circus patronage

   is so limited?

And as we part our ways,

my mind travels to that distant building

where you will pitch your tent tonight.

To all those men and all those beds.

Chock o’ block tents of testosterone,

each with its own circus calliope.

That every man there

lives with elephant trunks

full of memories

which try as he may,

he will never forget.

That every man remembers

some girl in glittering sequins,

who swung from bar to bar,

but never chose to take his hand.

That she would rather risk the fall

than fall in love with him.

This man who painted tears across his cheek,

and made a target of his nose.

Who crawled inside a darkened box

and was skewered by

one hundred piercing swords.

Who placed his head in the lion’s mouth

and welcomed the scars it left.

All circus acts these men chose

to inflict upon themselves.

And there with the fall of night,

each marquee dims,

flaps are drawn,

costumes are hung,

lions, tigers and bears are

ushered to their respective cages

and the circus goes to sleep.

And there in that slumber,

you would think these men

would be given a token respite,

yet through the night,

they are jolted awake by

the random roar

of some beast in tortured pain.

Sawdust and peanuts.

Such is the life of men

who as boys once dreamt of

running away to join the circus.

Men who arrived at

their coveted destination

   only to find that

they now only dream of

finding a way back home.

©2010 Jack Hubbell